


His Girls

by Ending_Daley



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: F/M, look Lucy wrote another kid fic - surprise surprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 14:31:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6809050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ending_Daley/pseuds/Ending_Daley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Owen Grady is a widowed father of four young girls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Girls

**Author's Note:**

> Here, have this. 
> 
> I reworked it for too many hours today and if there are any mistakes I will cry. In order to keep this piece short - and a one shot I elected to keep a few small moments out. Forgive me.

Plastic slapped plastic as he threw lunchbox snacks across the counter. He aimed for bags and boxes as he threw food across the counter, landing one of everything in each designated box. Owen counted quickly, rummaging a hand in each to make sure each bag held all the necessities. If something was missing he’d never hear the end of it.

He tossed occasional glances towards the baby, already tucked in her capsule, ready to be loaded into the car. She was sleeping peacefully, for the most part, little belly already full ready to be toted around for the day.

‘I ready!’ A little body jumped in the doorway, arms spread long above her head, her sister’s school bag on her back, and hat on her head. Owen chuckled, soaking in her large grin as his heart ached. It wouldn’t be long before he was packing her school lunch too.

He shook his head as he stepped towards her, picking the young girl up and hoisting her to his hip. ‘It’s not your time yet, little one.’ Darcy pouted, her blue eyes turning stormy as she batted her eyelashes at him. … He would give her the world. Not this. She was still too young. Kindergarten, yes. Primary school, no.

Owen kissed her cheek, easily setting the three-year-old down, before he called out into the house. ‘Okay team, we ready?!’ Footsteps followed, the sound of clunky school shoes thudding on stairs and beating his floorboards to a pulp.

Schoolbags jangled as not one but two daughters trotted into the kitchen. ‘Brontë,’ He handed the eldest her lunch bag, checking it over for the third time that she had everything she needed. ‘Celia,’ His second daughter, only five-years-old and bursting at the seams to go to school, much like her younger sister Darcy who was still too young to attend.

He kept hold of Celia’s lunchbox, promising he’d pop it in her bag the second he got it from Darcy. She nodded easily, dirty blonde locks bouncing about her face. ‘Brontë, can you help your sister with her hair?’ Owen asked, attention suddenly split as Darcy giggled from the living room shouting _‘Come get me!’_

A pang of guilt struck him in the chest as he passed yet another task off to Brontë. She was the eldest, at twelve. Still so little, yet so in control. She was the only other set of hands he had in their wild mess of a home. He caught her easy nod as he stepped away. He could have done it himself, stopped, taken a breath and managed on his own but his head was spinning too fast to even consider it as an option.

‘C’mon, Darcy. We gotta go.’ Owen sighed, the girl seemingly missing from the living room. He’d kill her if she escaped upstairs, wasting more of their precious time that morning. ‘You’ll be late for kinder!’ While her partner-in-crime jetted off to _big_ school that morning, Darcy was not so pleased to be left behind.

They had talked about this, in an attempt to defuse the situation before it was even set alight. Clearly, it hadn’t helped any. He had one hand on the bannister and a foot on the first step when the baby began to cry.

Owen swore under his breath quietly, calling out for Darcy one more time. ‘Five minutes, Darcy or I’m leaving without you.’ Despite his tone to her little ears, the words were not a threat.

In the kitchen, Brontë was rocking the carrier cooing at her baby sister softly. The infants cries had already lessened, the child disturbed in her sleep more than anything. Celia’s hair was up in a semi-neat ponytail, the girl flicking it past her face every few seconds.

‘Let’s start getting in the car,’ Owen ushered them towards the door, thanking his eldest for her help as he kissed the top of her head. Two girls were already out of the house when Darcy shouted after him a desperate ‘Daddy!’ calling down the stairs. He stopped, waiting for her when he realised she was running towards him with two things;

A blackboard, and a camera.

‘You gotta take the pictures, like Mommy.’ She reminded him with wild eyes. He accepted the items, kissing her cheek and thanking her for reminding him. Katherine was so much better at this than him.

Owen felt useless, despite the fact that he was as useful as he could be. He was still there, raising his daughters, getting them to school. Each child had to remind him what to write on the board, indicating their grades at school - kindergarten for Darcy.

He snapped more than one picture of his orderly daughters, hoping at least one would turn out all right. Owen wouldn’t know, he didn’t have an eye like Katherine. He thought every picture was good. No need to nitpick.

Brontë and Celia were dropped off first, kisses blown from the backseat as he promised to pick them up at three. Darcy was a little harder to shake loose, the girl suddenly clingy as he walked her to the kindergarten gate. She let go as soon as she found someone to play with - or dominate - he could never really tell with that one. It was happiness in unison or it was complete and utter annihilation.

He went to work with the baby - Lola still tucked snugly into her capsule. The zoo was no place for a baby, but he knew he would spend his whole day filing paperwork rather than anything else. The park was his. Inherited from the previous owner who handed it down to his star employee. If anyone had anything to say about his bringing Lola into work - they had to answer to him.

It was only for the first few days before her permanent place at the local daycare was finally freed. He was happy, for the time being, to have his baby within sight. 

‘You’re back!’ Barry grinned, greeting Owen by the reception door.

Owen hummed, ‘I’m back’. He didn’t feel ready. Maybe it was too soon. Barry had encouraged him to take as much time off as necessary. They could cope without him, it wasn’t like they needed Owen Grady to run the San Diego Zoo. It would function without him, Barry was confident about that - quality would just be lacking until he was finally fit to return.

He could sense the question as they moved for Owen’s office, a few heads turning at the sight of Owen toting a capsule through the small building reserved for business and storage. The faces smiled, happy to see him back, and with a new child in tow. Every single one of his girls had been marched through that office building and across the park, all at varying ages.

‘I’m back - I’m staying - It’s final.’ Owen huffed as Barry watched him with worry. He didn’t ask again, or allude that he wanted to. There was a portable crib already set up in the corner of the room, organised by Barry’s wife. He unbuckled the baby carefully, lifting her from her cosy car seat before letting her tiny body stretch across the mattress of the crib. She remained sleeping. His youngest daughter, completely and utterly dead to the world. He was blessed. If it weren’t for the fact that he really wasn’t. Owen loved his daughters, all four of them. Fate just liked giving them a rotten hand.

His coworkers were right for concern. He was nowhere near ready to be back there. It had been six months since he lost Katherine. Six months and life was still teetering on the edge of destruction. Owen barely managed to keep it all together before the end of the day, but he was sure he would go stir crazy in that house alone with the baby.

Like with everything in his life the last few months, Owen’s day passed along way too quickly. Before he knew it they were standing at the gate, Darcy sitting on the fence as he held Lola to his hip. They were slightly early, allowing the hoards of school moms to swarm.

Some were kind, offering to take the girls after school if Owen ever needed. He knew a small group of them, some friends with Katherine, others complete strangers to his ears and eyes. Casseroles and lasagnas were loaded into the back of his car, food offerings from overeager parental peers, some of them hitting on him, others not.

Owen paid the ruthless no mind, focusing on the classrooms beyond the gate while he waited for the bell to ring. Darcy babbled, talking wildly about crafts and the alphabet as she leant against his arm, trusting her father in keeping her on the fence.

It was Celia he saw first, young girl running, heels of her feet kicking the underside of her bag. ‘Daddy!’ She squealed, climbing up the fence beside her little sister in order to wrap her arms around his neck. He had to recenter his balance, accommodating support for Celia just as he was keeping Darcy on the fence with a steady hip and Lola drooling on his shoulder.

‘Where’s your sister?’ He asked Celia, still missing a daughter. Brontë was supposed to meet the younger girl at her classroom, and walk with her to the gate. It was rule, a must, and if something went wrong and Brontë wasn’t by Celia’s side there would be hell to pay.

Celia shrugged, blinking blue eyes at her father. ‘She’s talking to the new principal.’

‘New principal?’ He asked, wondering if he’d forgotten to read the pre-school newsletter. Owen couldn’t remember a single thing about there being a new principal.

Celia nodded. ‘She’s the prettiest, most loveliest principal ever, Daddy!’ The girl beamed, exciting Darcy beside her. Although Owen heard what the girl had said, and was excited for her. He was worried about Brontë.

‘Why’s she talking to Brontë?’ He asked Celia, the girl comparing her new principal to her favourite princesses with Darcy. She shrugged again, telling her father that her older sister had been naughty. ‘Not about last year?’ Their school year ended with both Brontë and Celia missing a fair chunk of their last weeks. Their mother died. The previous principal knew that, had promised that the girls could start fresh the following year without a hitch.

Brontë appeared in front of him, just as Owen had worked himself up enough to seek her out. She shrugged when he asked her about her day, only forcing a little smile before asking if they could go.

Celia was undeniably enthralled by the new member of the teaching staff, who had apparently stopped into every classroom to introduce herself. Her name was Ms Dearing, and she smelled of _‘’nilla’_ according to his daughter and she was the prettiest - Celia reminded him again, going on and on about princesses and maybe she was even prettier than _Rapunzel_ \- ‘No, Ariel! Daddy, she looks like Ariel!’.

It was nice to see his daughter so animated about something. So many weeks had been spent quietly, unexcited about the world and what it had to offer. His daughters were too scared to be happy, to show it. Their mother had died they didn’t think they were entitled to happy emotions. They were, he just forgot to remind them of that too caught up in his own despair to realise. 

‘She’s not that great,’ Brontë had mumbled from the seat beside him arms crossed over her chest.

‘What did she want to talk with you about?’ He asked her quietly, watching her from the corner of his eye.

‘Nothing.’ She brushed him off and Owen let it go. It was the first day of school, whatever it was Owen was sure it wasn’t too bad.

[…]

Organising the bedtime routine was still a struggle. Owen thought he would never quite find his grasp on it. two separate baths and a shower. He was thankful that most of his daughters were at an age where they could function for themselves. Brontë took care of her own routine while Celia was happy to do hers in unison with Darcy. Lola usually went first, in the hopes that a warm bath would keep her quiet.

The whole evening passed by the time they sat down to eat, Owen reheating a lasagna that was given to him. All four girls would curl up with him after, snuggled on the couch as he flicked through the channels trying to find something mildly appropriate before he sent them off to bed.

‘I missed Mommy today,’ Celia whispered quietly, tucked under his arm. He almost missed her admission, her small voice so quiet, so scared. Brontë hummed just as quietly while Darcy echoed the same sentiment a little louder. Lola just slouched in his lap, hungrily slurping at her bottle.

He pressed a kiss to each little head, telling his daughters that he missed Katherine too, and that was perfectly okay. There were sniffles but no tears, Brontë the first to get up and take herself to bed as Darcy’s little head drooped against his side.

Owen sat with them for a little while longer, Celia on his left, Darcy to his right, a hand stroking each of their heads. He closed his eyes for a second, listening to the quiet house, trying to focus on a distant memory.

He could hear his wife hum in his ear, her voice soft and smooth, the accompanying sound of her patting the rump of their infant daughter as she tried to lull them to sleep. It was any of the girls. They’d spent so many nights curled up on that couch, or the one before it, caught in those quiet moments before bed. Brontë curled into his side, and eventually Celia as Katherine rocked baby Darcy to sleep.

He missed her. Her company, the sounds she made, what she smelt like. He missed having someone to help him with this, to keep him grounded and the girls organised. It had always been a team effort, no many on his own. Even when she was sick, she was organising lunches and singing songs. Nothing could have stopped her from spending time with her girls, loving them.

That had been her downfall in the end. Her weakness. Owen wanted to hate her for it, but he couldn’t. He missed her too much, wanted her back so bad that he couldn’t possibly hate her for the decisions she made for herself, for him, for their family.

The baby cried in his lap, the resounding thunk of her bottle hitting the floor chasing away the sound of her mother in his ears. Celia and Darcy broke away, knowing it was their cue. They took themselves to bed, with the expectation that he would come in when Lola was settled. She went down without a hitch, grumbling quietly to herself as he set her down.

Celia was waiting for him, sitting up in her bed, legs crossed, hands holding her ankles. ‘You’re supposed to be asleep,’ He told the girl in a quiet voice, eyes flicking over to Darcy’s bed in the other corner of the room. His petite brunette already snoring.

The girl slipped under her blankets as he approached. ‘I know,’ She told him quietly as Owen knelt beside her bed, tucking her in tight. ‘I made everyone sad.’ She confessed, her voice quiet. He settled her favourite plush dog beside her before he leant in to kiss her cheek. ‘I just missed Mommy, is all. I should shut my mouth.’ Celia pouted, crossing arms over her chest as tears bubbled in her eyes.

Owen shook his head. ‘You’re allowed to miss her.’ He told her quietly, the young girl’s hands on his face.

‘I don’t wanna make no one sad.’ Her little fingers petted the stubble he hadn’t managed to scrape from his face. He watched her in the bleak light from her nightlight, little face cast in shadows as she frowned at him, apologetic for the upset she had caused.

He kissed her cheeks again, determined to chase away the pout on her face. ‘We’re already sad, Trouble. I can’t speak for Brontë or Darcy, but I want to know when you miss Mom. I miss her too.’ 

’S’it make you feel better? Knowing I’m sad too.’ It sounded odd like that. It didn’t make him feel better knowing his daughters were sad, but there was some reassurance in knowing they felt the same as he did. Katherine passed six months ago, he didn't expect the world to be sunshine and rainbows. He wanted it to get better, Owen just didn’t want the girls to repress their emotions in order to move forward.

[…]

It took four weeks before Owen Grady met Claire Dearing. Their interaction completely unintentional had his life not shattered around him yet again. Lola was sick. He had no sleep. To top it all off, work was a nightmare and he was starting to realise he shouldn’t have gone back.

He was late to pick up the girls, busy trying to pick up his own pieces. Barry’s wife - Marcie - had collected the baby earlier in the day, promising to take the infant home and settle her down.

All he had to do was collect Darcy before picking Brontë and Celia up at three.

He couldn’t even manage that.

He was late in collecting Darcy, the girl running a steady temperature had kicked and screamed at him, shouting that he had abandoned her. Owen was hours late, guilt settling in the pit of his stomach as he forced the girl into her car seat and broke road rules just to get to the other two.

The schoolyard was empty when he arrived. Owen was frantic. Never had the girls not been picked up on time, even on Katherine’s worst days someone was there for them, ready to bring them home.

Owen peered through the windows of their empty classrooms, desperate for his daughters to be sitting behind the glass, playing calmly. Darcy followed him cautiously, still hurt that she had been forgotten, but not allowed to wait in the car. He burst into the front office, trying to find his calm, mind running wild when he remembered the school ran an after-hours programme. He just hoped they were still on the school grounds and hadn’t attempted to walk home.

His mind was chasing worst case scenarios around and around in his head, desperate to pick one and shroud himself in even more grief.

He was turning on his heel, leaving the building just as loudly as he had arrived, determined to check the gymnasium (where the after hours programme was held) for his children. A voice reached him before he could touch the door.

‘Mr. Grady?’ He stopped his hand extended while he slowly peered over his shoulder.

He knew who she was straight away. He’d never seen her before and yet, thanks to Celia’s adamant chatter, he could picture her in his mind perfectly. She was pretty, and kind, and soft, and friendly. She smelled like vanilla and looked like _The Little Mermaid_. Ms Dearing.

She was as beautiful as Celia had described. Owen understood suddenly why the girl put so much effort and emphasis in painting the woman with words. His chest ached. He missed his wife.

Ms. Dearing was poised and proper, her clothes were pristine, not a single stitch out of place on her gray slacks, her hands in the pockets, white blouse designed to be a little big on her small frame. She looked so out of place in the small front office, to perfect, to fashion sensitive to be surrounded by messy artwork curated by young children.

And if she wasn’t out of place, he was, dirt covering his old clothes and his face, foliage still stuck in his hair. He’d last showered two days ago and was in desperate need for another one.

‘Are you looking for Brontë and Celia?’ He nodded dumbly, the adrenaline rush he’d just been running on suddenly crashing, skating down his spine in a warm wave. He watched her smile warmly, if but a little nervously at Darcy, the girl hiding behind his leg. ‘They’re in the gymnasium.’ He turned again, nodding a small thanks before she stopped him for a second time. ‘Do you mind if I talk to you for a minute?’ He gave another dumb nod.

Her office was bare. Filled with nothing but necessities and organised neatly. It put his to shame, paperwork all over the place. Owen took a seat across from her desk quietly, Darcy climbing on the spare one beside him. This room was meant for parents, two of them, not Owen and a toddler.

The furniture was exactly the same as it had been when they enrolled Brontë seven years ago, Katherine sitting calmly in the chair Darcy now occupied. The name plate on the desk no longer read the name of the previous principal, but a new one. _Claire Dearing._

’I didn’t want to flag this as an issue, but, Brontë has been acting out lately.’ He knew as much. Owen wasn’t sure until Claire had said it. She was talking back, moody, unresponsive at times. Her teacher had had enough. ‘Miss Collins has tried her best with Brontë, unfortunately, she’s at her wits end. Durning lunch this afternoon it escalated to a fight between your daughter and another student. They’re both remaining tightlipped on the matter.’

Darcy wiggled in her chair. Owen saw it coming but was powerless to stop it. ‘Our mommy is dead.’ The little girl announced, sitting on her knees as she leant over the arm of her chair. Claire’s posture straightened, the woman jumping in her chair slightly as she blinked. She was quick to apologise, her eyes catching Owen’s. ‘She got sick, and then Lola was in her tummy and her body said ‘ _no more’._ ’ Darcy shrugged, sharing her mothers end in brief words to a woman she had only just met.

Claire sighed, her features softening as she watched the young girl across from her. Heart aching in her chest. ‘I would really like it if she spoke to someone. If you’re not comfortable with finding her a counsellor, we have one appointed to the school. We have a zero tolerance policy on violence and disruption, as I am sure you are well aware. If Brontë can’t work things out, I will have to suggest you relocate her.’ Although her words were harsh, Owen could see she was apologetic. No student should be expelled in their last year, or at all especially when the circumstances of their behaviour were cause and effect of a parent’s death.

‘I’ll - I’ll talk to her, thanks.’ He nodded, agreeing as he walked out the door to set up a session with the school counsellor. Brontë would kill him, the girl too headstrong for help. She hadn’t been acting out at home much. There were raised voices and stamping feet, but not enough to alarm a physical fight.

[…]

Brontë wouldn’t talk to him.

She was twelve. Wasn’t he supposed to have more time before this happened? His daughter was barely a preteen and yet she was already blocking him out. She got away with it more than he liked, lucky to have younger sisters that drove his attention away. He could only harass her for so long before Celia needed something, Darcy wanted to read, or the baby started crying.

‘Whatever is happening at school, it needs to stop.’ He told her, as she loaded their dishes into the dishwasher. ‘If you don’t want to talk to me, fine. But you can’t take it out on your teacher, Brontë. You have soccer for pent up anger.’ He had a feeling that wasn’t going well either. What on earth was happening with his daughter?

Lola, sitting on his hip was growing frustrated. Owen trying to grill her sister for too long, and not paying any attention to her. She abandoned sucking on his shirt to hold her breath, before letting out a wild scream.

Brontë groaned. ‘You suck at this!’ She hissed, or yelled, he couldn’t quite tell over the baby howling in his ear. Either way, she stormed off, throwing her arms in the air and disappearing around the corner.

‘I’m trying!’ He yelled back, just as frustrated.

[…]

‘No,’ Owen said, shaking his head as his friend laughed from the other side of the dinner table. ‘God, Barry, her body’s barely cold and you’re thinking about setting me up.’ It was almost laughable had his friend not seemed so serious. Owen was only thankful that his daughters were already upstairs, tucking themselves into bed, Lola snuggled against Marcie’s lap.

Barry shook his head, ‘I’m not trying to set you up’. He didn’t believe the french man, they’d been friends for years. Owen liked to think that he knew what Barry was up to when he was up to it. ‘She’s relatively new in town, recently divorced. I don’t know, Owen - go out and talk to a grown up. I’m not telling you to sleep with her.’

‘I thought I was talking to grown-ups,’ He shrugged, fingers referencing them. Barry shook his head. They didn’t count.

He could still count on two hands the amount of months it had been since his wife died. What was Barry doing suggesting a date? Okay, not a date. Two grown adults going out for dinner together. ‘If it was just to bond with someone, why didn’t you bring her over here?’ All his friend had to do was ask, Owen would have let anyone else through his door. He was desperate for adult conversation. He just didn’t like the idea that it could be seen in the wrong light.

Marcie chuckled, ‘This would be a … _challenge_ for Claire’. She flicked her eyes to the ceiling and he knew all to well that she meant the children. His girls were well behaved, sat at the table like perfect angels while they had Barry and Marcie ask them about their week. They even went up to bed after desert like he asked them to. But, there was four of them. They were a small gang, and they were frightening to the untrained eye.

‘It’s a challenge for everyone,’ Barry teased, joking with his friend across the table. Owen only rolled his eyes. It wasn’t a lie. His girls were a challenge, even on a good day.

‘She’s lovely, Owen. Just feels a little out of place in a new city. The two of you will hit it off.’ Marcie promised him, a hand leaving his infant daughter to reach across the table and pat his knuckles. He had always trusted Marcie more than he had trusted Barry.

[…]

He didn’t think of Claire Dearing, the primary school principal when Marcie wrote her first name and a phone number down on the kitchen bench. She was just a blank, friendly unknown that was promising him a chance to get out of the house alone.

Owen didn’t realise that he should have thought of the Claire’s that’d made a recent appearance in his life until she saw her sitting in the window of a warmly lit restaurant at a table for two. He knew immediately she was the Claire Marcie knew from _way back_ , and the Claire he was supposed to be meeting.

He thought about turning on his heel and heading back to his truck, saving them both the embarrassment. Owen thought better of it. It had been close to two decades since he had last met someone for dinner that wasn’t his wife, or well-known friends. It would be rude, not to mention humiliating if he left her sitting there, her chin on her hand, waiting.

He watched the corners of her mouth pull up as she caught sight of him, Owen nodding his head at her. Claire grinned, a new light in her eyes as she stood to greet him. She moved for a hug, something that caught Owen completely off guard. This wasn’t Claire Dearing, school principal, this was someone else. Had he sat at the wrong table? He shook his head. It was the same red hair and kind blue eyes that talked to his eager Celia after school, Darcy dancing at his legs itching to go join her sister.

‘Hi,’ She grinned, pulling back and apologising quickly for the hug. She didn’t know why she did that. ‘I don’t think I’d ever been more excited to see a parent from school before.’ Claire chuckled, taking her seat again.

Owen was worried, regardless of what his friends told him. He didn’t want this blind _friend-date_ to see their outing as an actual date. Claire had greeted him with so much warmth it felt like they’d been getting dinner for years.

He was glad for a friendly face. There was no need for introductions and awkward chatter. He didn’t need to tell her his wife was dead - she already knew that thanks to Darcy.

‘So, you have Brontë, Celia, and the little one who was in my office the other week.’ Claire made a comment, changing their discussion on liberal art to that of his daughters. Her fork clanked against her plate, her desert finished as she eyed his off.

Owen nodded. ‘Darcy.’ He gave her the name of his little brunette, his troublemaker, his keeper of no secrets.

‘Three girls,’ She sighed, laughing a little as he copied the sound. He could hear the wow in her voice.

‘Four,’ Owen corrected. ‘I have an eight-month-old as well. Lola.’ Most afternoons she was asleep in the car while Owen waited, perched on the bonnet for his girls to finish school. Or, on busy days, he picked her up from daycare last.

‘Four?’ She looked a little stunned as he nodded with a slow grin. ‘That’s a lot.’ She was sympathetic, amused in a goodhearted way, and not completely taken aback. There was shock, but not the kind that sent most running for the hills.

Owen pushed his plate across the table towards her. Caramel mud cake barely touched. ‘It’s a lot.’ He echoed. ‘But, enough to know when someone wants my desert.’ He caught her cheeks blush, something warming in his chest at the sight. ‘They were Katherine’s thing.’ He told her. ‘I love my daughters, I would die for them. But, they weren’t my idea until Brontë was a heartbeat on a monitor.’

He wanted children. One day. Owen just hadn’t put any thought into it, not really. He’d known Katherine since they were seventeen. They’d met on some college tour he was convinced he wasn’t going to attend. He had the Navy lined up, he was just there to waste some time.

Owen did join the Navy. Spent four years there, communicating with Katherine when he could, seeing her when he was home. He got her pregnant when they were twenty, their parents calling them irresponsible and stupid. They were, and yet they couldn’t care less. They were happy. She had a few years left on her degree, enough that she could manage with an infant, and Owen had a year left before his contract would be revised.

Their baby was stillborn. Owen missed it, wasn’t even there to hold her hand. He was redrafted for another twelve months. Katherine cursed her parents for it all. Pushing them out of her life, and cutting all ties.

Somehow, beyond the hysteria of life, they managed. 

They pushed the thought of kids away for half a decade, determined to prove their parents wrong. She gave him a positive pregnancy test on his twenty-fourth birthday, straddling his hips, wide grin on her face. Owen was struck with fear for thirty seconds before he was overcome with joy. The fear stuck around until he had her heartbeat in his ears, and later his baby girl alive and kicking in his arms.

They realigned their lives for Brontë and they never once looked back.

Claire hummed, fork sliding into his cake as she nodded. ‘Do you have kids?’ He hadn’t thought of that. Nor had he seen her with any that weren’t calling her Ms Dearing. Claire shook her head, choking a little on the piece of cake she’d only just slipped into her mouth.

‘Not my thing,’ She answered and Owen laughed. Claire only shook her head, sighing that of course it was ironic, she worked at a primary school of all places. ‘I like kids, I just, _I don’t know_ \- I don’t want them.’ She shrugged. ‘Whole reason why I got divorced.’ She flashed the band of pale skin on her finger at him.

Owen wanted to ask. He didn’t know if he was allowed. She hadn’t asked him about Katherine. Only enquiring into the girls. Which, Owen felt she was allowed to. She did know two of them through school.

‘We tried,’ She sighed, the sound exhausted, not pitiful. ‘Then we stopped trying, and he got someone else pregnant.’ The grin on her face was self-deprecating, too wide to be honest, too smug to be happy. His chest clenched at the vulnerability he saw behind her expression, the hurt.

She was willing to have a child, even when she didn’t want to, for a man who couldn’t stay faithful despite legal vows. That was rough.

‘About Brontë,’ She started, wading into the conversation gently. The girl’s overall attitude had improved since Owen sent her to the counsellor on a weekly basis, but they were still having issues. Instead of taking her frustrations out on her teacher, she was taking them out on Joan who was only trying to help her. Owen hummed, letting her continue. ‘My mother died when I was seventeen and I know, it’s probably not the same to her, but I would like to talk with her - if that’s okay with you.’

Owen nodded easily, agreeing with a shrug, ‘Sure if you want to do that. You can.’

Claire was kind, well spoken and all around lovely. Celia had seen it on the first day they’d met, Brontë called her overeager. Owen didn’t exactly overlook his daughter’s comment, but rather just didn’t take it into mind.

Chat between them flowed evenly until his phone rang, Owen apologising quietly as he explained it was the sitter. They left the table, food paid for as Owen moved for the door, accepting his call. It wasn’t an emergency. Just Darcy refusing to go to sleep until she had seen her father and being rather loud about it.

He apologised to Claire on the street, promising to show her around town if she was ever up for it. Instinctively, Owen reached for her, a hand ghosting over her hip as he leant in and kissed her cheek. He felt the heat rush to her cheeks the second his lips touched her skin, the both of them springing apart.

The apology on his lips was sincere, embarrassment flooding his cheeks as Claire waved him off. It was no big deal, she claimed, her cheeks flushed pink. It was Claire who hurried away, tucking her arms around herself against the night chill and bidding him goodnight.

[…]

Just as he hadn’t meant to kiss her cheek. Owen didn’t mean to think about her, or watch her from the school gate while he waited for his girls.

Darcy had mustered the courage to join Celia on the asphalt courts Claire covered in her after school yard duty. The young girl clinging to her sister’s side as Claire spoke with them around the hustle of the after school rush.

He could practically see the hearts in their eyes as they talked to her with wild animation. For once, he wasn’t cursing Brontë and her inability to get out of class on time.

Claire was holding the hand of both Celia and Darcy, one girl on each side. She was approaching him slowly, and his heart picked up a beat. Lola squirmed on his hip, keeping him centred, chubby little baby fingers curled against his neck. Claire grinned at him, when she got close enough, eyes diverting to the baby.

‘This must be Lola.’ Kids weren’t her thing, but the grin was real. She reached out to run a finger down the infant's arm, Celia sacrificing her hold on Claire’s hand. Owen hummed, jostling the baby in an attempt to get a flirtatious giggle out of her. She delivered on cue, making Claire swoon for her tiny little personality.

Owen couldn’t keep his eyes off her. He didn’t know why, and he certainly didn’t want to try to figure it out. There was something about her that kept him captivated. He wanted to count every freckle on her cheeks and memorise the way she grinned at his daughters.

He didn’t want to entertain the idea that he was falling for Claire Dearing. Not at all. They barely knew each other. He would not entertain that thought. Owen wouldn’t allow it. His wife was dead. That was it, he needed to board himself up for the rest of his life. There would be no looking at other women if he couldn’t have Katherine.

Owen had always been a weak man for beautiful women.

Never was he unfaithful, Katherine had just been the most glorious woman on earth. Until she was gone.

[…]

Marcie invited Claire to dinner. His house, like always. It was easier with the girls, the four of them capable of being sent to bed rather than waiting to leave, or going home too early that he didn’t get to properly socialise.

Owen had promised that he would show Claire the city. Introduce her to all the nooks and crannies only locals or perceptive tourists knew about. Neither of them had any time. Although, she had a little more time than he.

It was Marcie’s idea that she come to dinner after she heard that Claire wanted to help with the girls. Owen only agreed.

He could hear Darcy in the hall, could practically see her swooning as she opened the front door she was not allowed to open. He heard Claire’s voice greet her and tried to settle his annoyance. There was a rule on the door, all the girls knew it. Darcy was the one who refused to listen.

‘You look _beautiful_!’ She crooned, giggle in her voice as Owen rounded the corner. He rolled his eyes over the top of his daughter’s head when Claire raised hers to see him in the hall. She smiled shyly, pink rushing across her cheeks as Owen reminded Darcy - because there was no point in reprimanding her now - to invite their guest in.

She did look beautiful. Dressed in a turtleneck long sleeved shirt and a pinafore. It was basic house visit and dinner nothing over the top, or under the mark. A chill had settled over the city that week, keeping them all a little colder than average. Claire, clearly, was not used to it yet. At least, that was what he had garnered from the way she shivered when the door was finally closed behind her.

Marcie had said that his daughters would be _challenging_ for Claire. A dinner in his home way out of her depths. The woman managed hundreds of school children every day. Not all in the one classroom, but she supervised them none the less. Owen didn’t expect anything other than the calm control she operated in the school yard. She did that and more, when she stepped into his home, keeping up friendly chatter whilst dividing her attention to the two little girls clinging to the skirt of her dress.

Celia and Darcy were in love. That was the only way he could explain it, both girls glued to her side while they asked her why she looked so pretty or smelled so perfectly of vanilla - Owen wanted the answer to that too, but didn’t ask. They played with the rings on her fingers, and the bracelet on her wrist, asking about each item and if a handsome prince had bought them for her.

Owen only chuckled, listening to them as he shook his head. Most of his attention was focused on the food on the stove. Claire sitting at the kitchen island behind him, Celia on the chair next to her, and Darcy perched on the countertop.

It was ridiculous how normal it was. The girls had done the exact same with their mother, grilling Katherine less harshly - they already knew her.

Her little face feel, Celia deflated when Claire told them, no prince had bought her the pretty things they liked on her. Claire bought them herself. Which was entirely unromantic in the eyes of the five and three-year-old. She needed a prince to buy her pretty jewels. She did look like a princess after all - which segued into an interrogation of it’s own. Darcy pressing the woman for information on Flounder and Sebastian, not believing Claire when she said she wasn’t a mermaid.

‘You should be one.’ Darcy told her, matter of fact, like Claire could and should make it happen as soon as possible.

Darcy was happily giving away every Grady family secret. Telling Claire all about her hopes and dreams all whilst showing the woman every scar she had on her young body. It was what led Darcy to ask about the pale slither of skin on Claire’s ring finger, the little girl convinced it had been chopped off, and was either growing back or had been sewed back on.

Owen interrupted to explain that he had no idea where Darcy got those ideas from.

Claire chuckled, explaining quietly to the little girl that her wedding band used to sit there. Since she was divorced, there was no longer a need to wear it. Darcy nodded, little face contorted in thought, lines appearing in wild squiggles across her face.

‘Daddy lost his love heart too.’ Darcy nodded with finality, comfortable that it was the right thing to say. Claire couldn’t hold back the fond smile she had for the young girl. Her words made her chest ache, pain thrumming with the thought that these little girls had lost their mother at such a young age. That Owen had lost the woman he thought he was destined to spend the rest of his life with.

No one deserved that, in any way shape or form.

Claire’s eyes flicked over to Owen’s back, watching the way his muscles tensed under his shirt, the man stock still as he listened to his daughter’s words. ‘Maybe you can fix each other.’ Darcy suggested as though it were the most simple thing in the world. Claire wished for her sake, that life would always be as easy as she now thought it would be.

Celia and Darcy disappeared quietly, Owen suddenly missing their lively chatter once Claire was sitting at the counter alone. Brontë was the next girl to enter the room, softly, squeezing in beside her father to watch their meal cook on the stove.

He heard Claire’s bracelet scrape across the counter when Brontë moved away, the woman reaching a hand out for her. She had asked Owen if it was okay to speak to Brontë and although he had granted her permission Claire had yet to find the chance.

Their voices were hushed behind his back. Owen didn’t dare turn to watch them, cautious that it would scar his eldest away. He could hear her voice, soft and low, humming as Claire spoke. He heard the slightest utterance of a promise from his daughter, Claire’s words louder than Brontë’s as she told the girl of her own woe.

‘ _No one wants to devalue what you’re feeling, but you’re not alone there’s no use in acting like you are. You have your dad to talk to, and your sisters. Even me, if you would like._ ’ Brontë hummed again, the sound of her sigh the trigger for Owen.

He turned, unable to keep himself out of it. Brontë and Claire sat close, a smile on the woman’s face, and tear tracks on his daughters. He didn’t have the chance to ask if they resolved Brontë’s turmoil when the doorbell rang.

Barry and Marcie filled the house with noise, bustling through the door after Brontë let them in, apologising for being late.

His girls were on their best behaviour at dinner. They still peppered Claire with personal questions - which wasn’t entirely unnatural or uncharacteristic of his girls. They were innately curious, especially with new people. Brontë sat quietly, not interacting as her sisters were. She answered Claire’s question’s when the woman asked them, thankful that it was nothing to do with school. There was nothing education related that Claire could ask without already knowing the answer to it.

The girls were set free from the table once their plates were cleared. The adults stayed where they were, glasses of wine set before them, a cheese platter to match - not that anyone was hungry after Owen’s meal.

They talked - work, life, politics - while the girls snuggled down into the couch, watching a Disney movie Owen actually managed to tolerate. Lola toddled, mostly crawled, around the house as she clanged hard plastic toys against the wooden floors intermittently before bothering her sisters and coming back again.

She stopped beside Claire’s chair after a little while, pulling herself up with a tight grip to Claire’s skirt before she raised her hands above her head. Owen watched Claire watch her, waiting a beat before he realised that the woman didn’t know what to do.

‘She wants you to pick her up.’ Owen told her quietly, Barry and Marcie ceasing their discussion to watch their friend. Claire hesitated, before slipping her hands under the infant’s arms and lifting her into her lap.

Lola settled easily, tucking herself against Claire, her head pressed to her chest. She looked slightly uncomfortable for a second before she readjusted her hold on the girl, getting comfortable, as Owen handed the baby a cracker.

Barry and Marcie continued their conversation, both of them aware of the way Owen was watching Claire. It wasn’t predatory on guard in case she hurt his child. But, rather in awe as he watched her get comfortable, Lola completely content to sit with Claire when she usually reached for Marcie or Owen.

‘You have a little friend,’ Marcie commented, smiling widely as she nodded at Claire and the infant. Claire hummed, nodding her head a little as she fell back into the discussion. After a moment or two, Owen watching his infant’s eyes fight to stay open, he sought out a bottle, preparing it before handing it over to Claire. She stared at him, out of depth with the infant in her lap.

He readjusted her position, shifting her arms and Lola’s little body so the baby was reclined ever so slightly. She felt like a doll, as he handed her the bottle and nodded towards the girl. In a second, Lola was suckling with gusto despite the slack and tired look on her face. 

They remained that way until Lola fell asleep in her arms, the baby slack weight and dead to the world. She’d fallen asleep on Claire quite comfortably, enough that Owen had to lead the woman upstairs and into the nursery, baby still clutched to her chest. It was easier to move her that way. If she passed hands she would undeniably wake and refuse to fall back asleep until Owen rocked her tirelessly.

They lingered in the doorway, Claire watching Owen with a light in her eyes he didn’t recognise. He thanked her in the dark, his hand ghosting over her hip again, his lips not meeting her skin despite the fact that he wanted them to.

He still didn’t understand what was going on in his head.

Just as he was saying goodnight, Barry and Marcie already out the door and at their car, Darcy came running down the hall. ‘Can you brush my hair?’ She asked Claire quietly, nervous and uncertain.

Claire looked to Owen who had sighed heavily at the girl’s question. The man giving her a nod and a shrug as if to say it was up to her. Claire hesitated, just as he had done with Lola earlier, before making her move. She nodded softly, promising the girl that she would brush her hair before bed.

Not ten minutes later she had a train on the couch. Darcy in her lap brushing Celia’s hair in front of her. Brontë watched from the doorway behind them, beside her father. Owen chuckled whenever the girls swapped positions, allowing each other equal chance at having Claire brush their hair.

‘Daddy’s a bit rough sometimes.’ Celia told her quietly, unaware that her father was in the room.

Claire hummed, ‘Well, I can’t do this at school. But your father can call me if ever you girls need anything.’ Celia turned her head, looking at Claire like she had offered the world. ‘It’s up to your dad but,’ She shrugged, ‘I wouldn’t mind’.

She had told Owen that children weren’t her thing. That she didn’t want them. And here were four little girls. One who wanted someone to talk to, two who liked a feminine touch, and a tiny infant who found the comfort in her embrace. She liked kids, she liked these kids their funny sense of humour and complete admiration for her.

Without a doubt, Claire would do anything for Owen Grady’s daughters.

She stayed longer than just brushing their hair, Darcy clinging to her leg as Owen sent them up to bed. It was Darcy who asked her to tuck her in, the question of a story on her lips. Her father rolled his eyes, shooing both girls off to bed. They were up late enough, they didn’t need a story.

Celia and Darcy were wished goodnight a little sternly from their father who watched them with humoured eyes. Brontë had said goodnight earlier, taking herself to her room to read, and Lola seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Owen checked on them both regardless, popping his head into their doorways before slipping back into the hall.

They were quiet, as Owen guided her through his home. They stopped at the door, as they had done earlier, Barry and Marcie huddling out into the cold before Darcy came running for Claire.

Eyes on the floor, Claire thanked Owen for allowing her entrance to his home, for the chance to see his daughters in their environment, for the good food and friendly chatter. Owen only watched her. It was all he seemed to be capable of doing, soaking in every nuance from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

He had tried to suppress the confusing feelings that had been bubbling in his chest all night. Owen would have liked to think that he was doing a good job of it. It was there, in the dark of the entry, cool air seeping in from under the door and the yellow hue of the exterior light that his resolve crumbled.

The space between them vanished. Owen hesitated, a breath away from her face, giving Claire thechance to back away. She stayed stock still, eyes closed, lashes pressed to her cheek. He felt her breath graze his skin, already short as she waited for him to make his move.

Owen took too long, deliberating the ins and outs when Claire surged forward. She wound slight fingers around the collar of his shirt, holding on for dear life as she crashed her lips to his. They passed shy and timid and coasted straight towards hungry and passionate. His arms slid around her waist, her fingers pulling loose from his collar to cup his face.

He broke away, panting against her cheek forehead pressed to hers. Claire giggled while she tried to catch her breath. ‘We should not have done that.’ She wound her arms around his neck, keeping her hold there relaxed.

Owen’s brow furrowed a deep crinkle setting in between his eyes as he blinked at her curiously. She quirked a brow, tilting her head to the side as she quietly inquired into the look on his face. He kissed her again, slowly this time as he sucked on her bottom lip. Owen hummed, the sound vibrating between them, running across their skin like wildfire.

A hand slid down her side, locking around the underside of her thigh. He felt her weight shift before she moved, Owen supporting her weight as she wrapped her legs around his waist. She giggled, arms looped around his neck, fingers in his hair.

‘We _so_ should have.’ He grinned, pecking her lips as Claire chuckled, peppering kisses across his face like they were teenagers.

‘I should go,’ She whispered against his skin, mirth still flowing from her as he let her slip back down to the floor. She wiggled away from him, grin on her face wide. It was late. He had children upstairs, and whatever was happening between them bordered on mildly inappropriate for the both of them. Regardless, she wanted to dive in, head first.

Even as she moved for the door, Claire couldn’t keep her hands from him, Owen the same as he stole kisses against her skin, alive thanks to the slight giggle she made. He felt like a love struck puppy, his hands on her waist as Claire moved ahead of him, one of her hands on the door, the other curled around his against the fabric of her dress.

She turned her back to the door, devilish grin flashing through the cracks of her cheeks. She kissed him mournfully, her hand patting his shoulder as she broke away and breathed a barely there goodnight.

[…]

He felt like he was cheating on his dead wife.

As much as it flicked the switch on disappointment - towards himself - Owen couldn’t help but feel the low belly burn he felt for Claire. She was ice on a burn, regardless of the fact that they seemingly clashed, and yet all together didn’t.

His daughter’s liked her. That was a plus, when was that ever going to happen. He gave it a small handful of years before Darcy warded off every woman who so much as looked in his direction. Maybe he and Claire weren’t for forever, that was a reality he couldn’t comprehend at the time - but they could have some fun.

There was no use in sitting around feeling sad and sorry for himself. Katherine hated him like that. She preferred it when her dashing husband pulled out the charms, flirting with the waitress and preening like the peacock he knew he was.

Eight months and he hadn’t felt more alone. He missed Katherine, her sweet laugh and her soft skin. He missed their feeble attempts at a _quickie_ between nap times, lunch breaks, and school pick up. She had been sick, but their sex life hadn’t diminished with her health.

The fundamentals of their relationship had always relied on fighting and make-up sex. They just so happened to have four daughters as a result of it.

Owen only rolled his eyes at himself, thinking his mind purely selfish for thinking of sex rather than companionship. Claire was recently divorced Owen would bet a good amount of money on the fact that she had no interest in the long term at least for now.

He caught the way she grinned at him in the schoolyard, talking with mild distraction at other parents as her eyes kept trying to find his. Her cheeks flushed when he winked at her, chuckle flowing from her lips.

It was all the time they managed to have together. Owen busy at the zoo, and as always overtasked with his children. Claire only smiled at him politely, shaking her head as he apologised yet again for fallen through plans.

Owen promised to show her the city. She had barely seen a square of it. And yet, when Brontë’s sleep away camp coincided with a sleepover of Celia’s while Darcy and Lola were due at Marcie’s for some TLC the woman couldn’t deny his girls. Owen found himself free.

His plans to give her a twilight tour started, and ended abruptly the second he opened the door. Just like their shared kiss, it was Claire who instigated it, her small but capable hands pulling him down the few inches she needed for him to kiss her.

The second their lips touched, Owen had her against the wall, Claire’s hands sliding easily into his hair. He carried her up the stairs, Claire’s legs locked around his waist as she shrieked each time he so much as wobbled. She was quiet when he dropped her on the bed, teeth pressed into her bottom lip as Owen prowled.

He had his reservations but he had no regrets.

[…]

‘Where did this come from?’ Brontë asked, holding a bracelet in her hand.

Owen shrugged, ‘Maybe Darcy was going through Ma’s jewellery again.’ Each of his girls had something of Katherine’s, a pendant, a necklace, a bracelet, a ring. Her more precious items were kept away from little fingers and jewellery pinching faeries. There was something for each of them when they were grown and responsible enough to carry around their mother’s jewellery

Brontë shook her head. ‘Its not Mom’s.’ The girl had a mental itinerary of everything her mother ever owned, regardless of if it was still in the house or not. ‘I found it under the bed.’ She told him quietly, watching her father with suspicious eyes as he stared back curiously.

It took a beat for him to recognise it. He could hear Claire’s breathy laugh in his ear, and her gentle sigh of oh-no when her bracelet caught on his shirt. The metal snapped, giving way when she tried to tug it free. Claire held it in her hand, looking at it for one devastated moment before he ran a hand up the inside of her thigh, successfully distracting her. 

‘I don’t know where it came from,’ He told her with a shrug, the girl fighting back that she had found it in his room, but wouldn’t respond when he asked her why she was in there to begin with.

Extracurricular activity had shifted whatever was going on in his eldest’s head, that and a few small discussions with Claire. She stopped taking it out on her teacher for the most part, her studies going back to normal. Brontë, however, was still taking it out on Owen. He was starting to get sick of it, knowing they still had puberty to go through. At this rate, he might actually strangle her before she got there.

Brontë just glared at him, staring holes into his head with her mother’s features. He loved her, just as he loved all of his girls, but he could see that Brontë held contempt for him. If given the option she would have picked her mother living - and her father dead. Owen tried not to keep any hard feelings between them. He knew it was teenage angst - or pre-teenage angst. In the very least it was a passing phase, she would look back in a few years and feel immensely guilty for the things she had thought and said.

They used to be close, he and Brontë for the longest time until Katherine got sick. Priority shifted after that, the girl realised she wanted her mother more than him, somewhere between confirmed diagnosis and death.

He wondered if she hated him because of Lola. Had he not gotten her mother pregnant, had her body chosen to not reject the one thing she didn’t need; she would have continued her treatment. Abortion was out of the question for Katherine. She had lost one baby and that still weighted on her conscious despite them having three beautiful, healthy daughters. She ceased treatment for the tiny little thing under her skin, allowing it to grow in the hope that her body didn’t turn hostile halfway through.

Had she not been pregnant, had she aborted the small collection of cells, maybe she would have gotten better. Owen was sure, in his twelve-year-old’s eyes, that it was all his fault. Like he wanted to be left alone with three daughters and a newborn baby. It wasn’t his choice. It was Katherine’s.

He loved Lola not only because she was his child, but because she was her mother’s choice. Her last wish, gift, and expression of love. 

‘How do you feel about Claire?’ He asked her softly, knowing the bracelet had been under his bed for weeks. He and Claire weren’t serious, but he had seen the benefits she had for his children. Brontë had calmed a little, there was still anger in her eyes but it had morphed into the teenage emotion she would eventually grow out of.

Brontë crossed her arms over her chest and shrugged. ‘She’s all right.’ He saw the way she responded to the woman, her attention drawn, her smile back for the first time in months. All right was an understatement. ‘Why?’ The question was sharp, ‘Is she gonna come around more?’ He could sense the defence in her voice, the girl prepared to defend her mother’s position in their family.

Owen shrugged, ‘Yeah, maybe. Celia and Darcy enjoy her company.’ Brontë shrugged back, corners of her mouth twisted. Owen took it as undecided. His daughter’s opinions mattered to him, but at the end of the day, he would do what he felt was right. If that meant that Claire would be around more often, then so be it.

[…]

When she returned home from work that evening Claire found her front door wide open. The sun was setting behind the houses in a glorious orange glow. It didn’t help relieve the deep belly dread that sunk immediately to the pits of her stomach.

She was terrified to approach, stepping forward carefully as she called into the house, her phone unlocked in her hand, the number for the police already up.

Her TV was stolen, along with a few other appliances, glassware broken in the kitchen seemingly for the hell of it. She sat at the dining table her head in her hands when a police officer suggested she stay somewhere else for the night. The dread settled lower. She didn’t know anyone in this town, not enough to crash on their couch until she felt safe enough in her own home.

Whoever had broken in, etched the word _‘slut’_ across her dining table. Police assured her it was likely nothing to worry about, just local youths stirring up trouble for the hell of it. She didn’t know anyone in San Diego, and as a primary school principal - a temporary one at that - there was really no cause for alarm. They suggested she change the locks, and invest in higher security if it still bothered her.

Claire wanted to pack up her things and go straight back to Madison that very night. She knew better of it, just tired and emotional more than anything else. She packed a bag, seeking out her personal valuables that still remained, tucking them in with a few changes of clothes and her phone charger.

She didn’t mean to drive to his house. Claire had intended to rent a room someplace in the city where she could soak in a jacuzzi and order room service. Instead, she was stuck in Owen’s driveway.

Claire didn’t know how long she was sitting there for. The sun had set, behind her long ago as she stared at her dashboard, willing herself to move. A tap at the window caused Claire to jump out of her skin, Owen grinning at her with confusion from outside the car.

‘Hey,’ He pulled her door open when she unlocked the car. Owen poked his head in, Lola gurgling on his hip. ‘What’re you doing here?’ Claire took one look at him, blinked and then burst into tears. She wasn’t like that, not usually. Claire Dearing was not overly emotional. An exception being the first handful of months after she’d discovered her husband wasn’t _only_ cheating on her but his infidelity caused a pregnancy. She had drunk herself into an emotional stupor after that revelation.

Through her tears she saw Owen look about, desperate to find somewhere to put the baby down. He gave up after a second, handing the infant to Claire who took her instinctively. She clutched the baby to her chest, crying into the child’s small shoulder as Owen wedged himself into her car, trying his best to wipe away her tears and calm her down.

Claire shook her head after a minute, calling herself ridiculous as she stared into Lola’s green eyes, the baby grinning at her despite the upset. ‘You can stay here,’ Owen offered without Claire needing to ask. She had told him of the break in, and he assumed the rest through her tears. Claire shook her head again, telling Owen that she couldn’t impose.

‘Claire!’ She heard Darcy shout from the doorway, just able to see the girl teetering on the front step over Owen’s shoulder. She wasn’t allowed to leave the house without Owen’s express permission but came running anyway only to launch herself into the car. Celia followed seconds later, also climbing into the car with her sisters.

‘We’re watching _Enchanted_ tonight, can you stay?’ It was Celia, asking with sweet hope as Owen chuckled behind her, boxing them all away from the cold between the open car door and the body of the vehicle.

‘Jury’s out - you’re comin’ in.’ He told her. Claire rolled her eyes at his cocky grin, Owen stepping away from the car and instructing his children back inside. They piled out, sticking by Claire’s side as he retrieved her bag from the back seat and ushered them all back into the warm.

Lola had formed an attachment to Claire. The infant refused to let her go as Celia and Darcy directed her to a spot on the couch she was allowed to occupy. ‘It’s Daddy’s spot - but he don’t need no more room.’ Darcy giggled, as Claire sat, reclining against the furniture as Lola clung on like a baby koala.

‘You’ll hurt your back doin’ that,’ Owen interjected, leaving a bowl of popcorn beside the two beanbags on the floor. He called out for Brontë, warning that the movie was starting if she wanted to join in. He slipped between Claire and the arm of the couch, a pillow dropped to his side as he tapped his hand against it.

Claire shifted, changing her position so she was practically lying across his couch, her back propped up by Owen and a pillow. Lola grunted at her a little, until Claire got comfortable, not used to having a sleepy baby holding onto her tight.

Owen’s arm draped over the back of the couch, his hand hanging down to stroke the baby’s back. Claire hummed in time with the baby, the both of them sighing warmly as the movie began to play.

This was his home, and his girls but Claire Dearing found a place she would like to stay.


End file.
